Art With Liquor
by Zaedah
Summary: Watching him stoke the flames inspires a shocking number of ridiculous metaphors.
1. Condensation Rings

I know I pushed my dear readers' patience with a deviance from NatCon on that last post. But I'm making up for it now. Part two coming shortly.

Enjoy responsibly.

_(That means you Syd)_

**Art With Liquor**

So he takes you to an Irish wake, partly because you've never partied with the dead and mostly because it's a Windex streak-free excuse for alone time. Well, as alone as a pair can manage in a roomful of cheerful, drunken mourners. It's an odd first date, if you can call it that. Which you won't. But then he mentions he'd met his future ex at one of these cultural events and you wonder about patterns.

So you sit at a high, round table with the stickiness of too many spilled Guinness's and not enough napkins. Beer bottles leave condensation rings, forming a maze that you trace, muddling the perfect circles into something more random. Something in the lazy movement of your finger transfixes him and art with liquor is born. The stool is cushy and twice as gooey as the tabletop but you don't mind. Because he's next to you wearing a pale gray shirt topped with an easy grin. It's a potent combination that's getting notice from the Irish eyes smiling in his direction. And you lean closer than propriety advises. Through feminine telepathy you shout 'mine' despite the lie of it. And the beer is cold but you hold yourself to one in order to get through this day without kissing him in front of his 300 cousins.

So once a few red-faced old gentlemen finish unscripted eulogies garbled in slurs, the crowd lessens a fraction. He tells you they're moving onto another pub to express their grief through an Olympic sized dart board. And maybe you'd like to see what transpires when sobriety-challenged men are handed pointy projectiles. Carnage isn't a bad way to prolong the date that isn't. You follow the ambling revelers to a smaller bar and its oversized sports equipment and it turns out his aim improves with added alcohol. You can't help but wonder what other steel-tipped apparatus you might have in hand tonight.

So you discover he's quite talkative when immersed in the womb of excessive family. And animated, which could also be contributed to that fifth beer. Or the shots deemed mandatory for saluting late lamented… uncle somebody or other. His arm, formerly waving to illustrate an interception that morphed into a lateral pass which saved the high school football season, finds rest at your waist. It stays while cousin number 408, the old defensive lineman, explains how he caught that lateral and hefted all 276 pounds into the end zone. It stays while the gathering shows signs of attrition. There are no fewer than ten cabs outside to usher the sleepy patrons into the warm darkness of the Massachusetts night. It hasn't occurred to you that home isn't your final destination today.

So your surprise is genuine when you stand at the front desk of a charming bed and breakfast with your boss, who is taking your hand in an assuming way that should raise your borrowed Irish ire. But his eyes are asking and your affirmation comes in a display that drops the jaw of the elderly clerk. The old bed will be a problem, not because it's the only one, but that it may not be up to the task. He grins, unbothered by logistics because there's a comforter, a floor and a fireplace. Watching him stoke the flames inspires a shocking number of ridiculous metaphors.

So apparently he's not as repressed as he portrays. And you wonder if what happens in Boston stays in Boston.


	2. Musical Pineapple

**Art With Liquor**

**Part Two**

When you come home to find a piano intruding on your tiny living room, you think maybe he's nuts. Two weeks out of Boston and your sixth floor apartment is suddenly as crowded as that cramped pub. Mentioning the childhood passion shouldn't have prompted such an extravagant surprise. Still, it sits in the room's center, a diva of glossy black and despite the irritation of invaded space, your fingers itch. The keys ask for an introduction, a first dance. The silence of the room reminds you of all that it means to live alone. And with manic urgency you want to play. But not without an audience.

When he arrives equally unannounced, the sheepish grin is noted just before the lips greet you most unprofessionally. You want to tell him you can't thank him properly when he's stealing your oxygen, but the idea of suffocating this way has merit. The chilled wine grazes your leg and in the next moment, he steers you to the settee. Then the fear bounces off the claw-footed shiny behemoth. Nothing a few gulps of wine won't disguise. Fingers haven't caressed beauty from ivory since that cheap music store keyboard five years ago. And those chords had been harsh, grating the ear like your husband's excuses. He wasn't all that you'd separated from that year. Even scales, the joy of beginners, weighed unevenly and you sold your music. Until this man brought heavy lacquered wood back into your home. But you still think he's nuts, though you harbor the giggle-inducing image of him carrying the thing up six flights on his back. Poor baby might need a massage.

When you sit on the bench, it's like being seated before the mantle of a master with no clue how to forge a worthy masterpiece. Out of practice, you apologize before the first note is even offered. It would help to pick a song, but that's being predictable and he's already decimated that tactic. Like the gift's appearance, you want to hand him spontaneity. The initial note is sharp but finds a mate, then another and another. It's all make-believe; an imaginary song for an imaginary lover. You make it up as you go and he's impressed. Maybe that's not a bad way to conduct a relationship. Improvise. It's rough but sweet; a musical pineapple for body and soul, organic and wholesome in its satisfaction.

When you stop and his hands find your shoulder, wholesome is the last thing you crave. There's a thought to christening the new furniture piece and it must have shown because he's turning you sideways and laying your spine full against the length of the upholstered bench. And he's got you making a thoroughly different sort of music. Later the favor is returned and you hum that particular song perfectly.

When you wake alone, you consider pretending to be offended. The morning is Disney caliber with its birdsong and raindrops. It's all soft and tender and everything he wasn't last night. You look at your fingers in the hazy light, pondering their newly discovered aphrodisiac qualities. The pillow he'd used carries his scent and maintains a slight indent and you inspect it for blond hairs. Upon the feathery surface you finger a makeshift version of the improvised song, tapping the scent into the core as if ensuring it will stay where he did not. The tune, however hollow it rings in your head, becomes synonymous with a sexy pineapple.

When you rise and stroke the piano's mirrowed cover, you realize there are condensation rings from last night's wine glasses marring the finish. Circles etch a reminder of the night, of progress started in crowds and secured in quiet. And though a cloth is within reach, the rings are allowed to remain, marking the night he said he loved you.


	3. Starved Piranhas

**Art With Liquor**

**Part Three**

You notice that you rarely witness newborn sunbeams illuminate pale skin. Not enough to have the sight memorized at any rate, which is a shame because some canvases deserve daily viewing. And close inspection. Truly, the man should be framed under skylights. A body far from slight should not achieve disentanglement from a limb pile without waking the other occupant. But it's a curse, your ability to sleep through train wrecks and nuclear attacks. For the first few weeks, disappearances are simply labeled discretion. But caution has a way of shifting on suspicious winds and you wonder about a world where a decent, reputable man is capable of using you. But when he waits for you after the case's resolution and hints at dinner and… dessert, you forget the insult of artless mornings.

You notice odd little objects at his place, things that make up for the still-boxed state of most of his possessions. Like the oversized baseball that represents a son's first home run. Like the mason jar of dirt from an ancestral plot in Ireland. Like the dog tags of a best friend buried too soon. Sentimental is your man and the search begins for what you might donate to the collection. A few shirts in the closet don't count, nor the travel toothbrush drying in the stand. You want something significant, an item showcasing a moment in this liaison. A pack rat is nothing to admire, but there's a strange little regret that you hadn't pilfered a dart from that first date or committed the song you'd invented for him onto a music sheet. The next shared event will see you turn thief and his shelf will feature a piece of you.

You notice the hickey just in time to drape a scarf across your throat before leaving home. And then you catch your reflection in the car window and decide the Daphne look trips into the obvious. A turtleneck is hauled from the deepest recess of a bottom drawer and you bless the slight morning chill for providing the excuse. The frown, born of good skin gone bruised, comes as easy as the grin because you well know the location of the one he's sporting. That can't be comfortable, your smirk tells him when he shifts carefully in his chair.

You notice that they haven't noticed, which is an embarrassment to their acclaimed deduction skills. Parasites and bacteria can't evade their scrutiny but somehow his hand's mission under the table is entirely missed. As is your gasp. Had you worn a skirt, this would have been pay-per-view material. For a man obsessed with all things hygienic, he plays awfully dirty. Knowing he won't confide your extracurricular activities to anyone, you're clamping down on lips that quiver to confess all to the team's sole woman. But should the knowing looks begin, the fissure will form to expose the innards of your deceit. You've rainchecked so often lately they've dubbed you a recluse-in-training. It's what the boss has driven you to, they gossip and it's too close to the truth to laugh along with.

You notice he's getting antsy. Too many thoughts are sloshing around in his head and the evidence is leaking into his limbs. Not a fidgeter by nature, he is now a ticking clock with self-regenerating batteries. Experience says this doesn't bode well for the oft-fantasized china pattern picking and monogrammed towels. He still says he loves you, although typically you have to say it first. It's unclear whether he's thinking about ending this, going public or panicking that you'll become infected with that curse of the female chromosome; abject clinginess. Is that why men can't ever navigate the use of Saran Wrap? To venture into a 'where do you see us going' conversation is to skinny dip in a toxic cesspool with starved piranhas. So tonight, amid candlelight and the type of tuxedoed violinists seen only in chick flicks, you play tag with silence to keep from voicing the things that will drive him away and in so doing, will likely succeed anyway. And your finger is tracing wet circles on the table again until…

You notice the little box in his hand when he kneels.


	4. Real Estate

**Art With Liquor**

**Part Four**

There are so many complications, not the least of which is whether to wear his silvery promise in view of those who might make issue of protocol. It's quite impressive, this ring, and therefore hard to pass off as a simple accessory. No rock this exquisite comes without a penis attached. He leaves the decision to you, giving you the reins to steer this relationship. When did you agree to play jockey to this unsanctioned horse? And part of you wants to buy a downtown billboard to announce this shift in the paradigm is drowned out by your more sensible side. That part, raucous as a sugar-high toddler, says secrets require no explanation. The lack of blushing details has much to commend the idea of continued privacy. The glistening gem sits low between your knuckles, just tight enough to not slip off. It's strangely comforting to feel it moving with every gesture, a reminder of its existence and the promise the silver circle represents. Over dinner, he comments about your increased hand waving when you speak and you don't explain. Kissing the gem lightly, you tuck it into your mother's jewelry box before heading to work.

There are so many ways to creatively fib, you doubt you can exhaust the gamut. Concern for your soul against the lies and exaggerations are conquered by his new game. He's turned every team conversation into a challenge and despite the glaring face of death and autopsies, you welcome the distraction. Well aware of the IQ level of your colleagues he dares you to see which one will pick up on the subtle remarks. The longer it takes, the less subtle he gets. You have more faith in their observational skills than he does and it's justified when one finally comments on your permanent drift of a smile, indicative of your new real estate in la-la land. And lie you might, but there's no 'off' button to your blushing mechanism when he winks. The rapt audience turns the conference room session into twenty questions before the boss reminds the group of duty, of responsibility. Later he confides that it was just too damned hard not to laugh. But you stand a little too close these days and one raised eyebrow leads to gossip. Until the ring-finger sunburn from the weekend at Cape Cod produces evidence that ends the secrecy.

There are so many reasons to love him. Until Boston, it had been an easily ignored crush, one that might have filled a few diary pages as a teenager. Never once did you write your first name with his last name to see how it looked. There were no initial laden hearts in the margins. You remember that high, round table and those beer rings and his arm at your waist and pinpoint that as the moment cupid threw the whole bazooka at you. The things you know now you've learned slowly, like a pupil allowed exploring with no instructional commentary. You like that. He's got a soft spot for penguins, though he blames his son for it. And you can't resist sneaking a big plush Happy Feet character into his office. He's not immune to vanity, though his hair never smells of bleach. And you know all the places that aren't blond. He's addicted to the gym, though he never lets you go with him. And you benefit from the resulting stamina.

There are so many dresses before you, the shades and styles and lengths too varied for proper comparison. White will not be yours, but you are purity in his eyes and that's enough. Two additional sets of eyes are no help when they can't see through their tears and every fabric and cut is declared perfection. You bought your first wedding dress alone, on a budget and in a hurry. This one, this romance in general, feels more like a group effort. You don't mind. True, you haven't even settled on a theme; traditional, relaxed or a mix. And there's much to be decried for his not being Scottish instead; a kilt would have set the mood indeed. For every passing thought of eloping, he reminds you of your worth and your radiance should be displayed before every soul they know. The elegant lace and ballgown types will hush the gathering but there's only one person you want to see speechless. And thirty one dresses later, it's the sleeveless shift that clings with its silken embrace and falls with its floating hem which will best accomplish the goal.

There are so many things to add to 'I do.' But you say only that. Because he already knows. You entwine celebratory wine glasses and realize how many times liquor has played a part in this new existence. It's an art, turning alcohol-induced decisions into a future. But the condensation rings that have marked every good occasion have always been interwoven. And you've always liked signs. He's making one now, a jerk of the head toward forever and with that improvised song craved on your skin, you follow.


End file.
